City of Walls and Secrets
by Yukiko the Child of Snow
Summary: Series of crack drabbles and shorts featuring the Lords of the Kingdom of Hidden Rock. Chapters with mature content are marked (M).
1. Not His Cup of Tea

**_"We'll have to make some major changes around here." Turgon concludes._**

* * *

The day has been dragging on painfully slow in the study of the king of Gondolin, and how on Middle-Earth Maeglin ends up in Turgon's study again, he isn't quite sure anymore, and who cares anyway. He has not the mind for rational thinking when for some reason the weather decides to pull a trick of some sort and thus makes itself unbreathably _hot_. The roots of his hair are already damp, and Turgon's face is glazed with a thin coat of sweat as he tries to focus on his paperwork. Maeglin is dead sure the king is cranky as heck now; yet _cranky_ is but a wild understatement. He isn't new to the fact that any - and possibly _every_ \- object in this room might fall victim to his uncle's notorious temper once it has been triggered by the heat doubled by layers of brocade robes the king has to stuff himself in every single day.

He doesn't have to wait for long.

"Arrgh!" Turgon makes a disgusted moan, the most agonizing sound Maeglin has heard in a while. The king nearly spits the tea he has just sipped back into the porcelain cup his servant has placed on his table, "This tea is nothing more than _hot leaf juice_!"

Turgon has, it seems, forgotten that his nephew, because of the heat, has also been bottling in his desire to rage the shit out of him. And so, in response, he rages. But, out of respect for his elder and his king, the display of Maeglin's wrath in the end only consists of an irritated grumble, "Uncle, that's what _all_ tea is."

The next thing the Lord of Mole knows is Turgon standing, looming over him as he said, "How could a member of my own family say something so horrible?" tiny tremors lace through his voice, his hand squeezing the empty tea cup almost to the point of crumbling. Maeglin rolls his dark eyes, not caring that he is very likely going to receive an almighty slap on his face for that, _yeah, as if your_ other _family members aren't weird enough anyway._

Much to the half-Moriquende's surprise and relief, Turgon doesn't slap him after all. Instead, he storms off in a regal fashion, cloak of turquoise and glimmering golden embroidery sweeping majestically behind him. "We'll have to make some major changes around here." Turgon concludes.


	2. Gondolin Games

_**Duilin is going to win anyway.**_

* * *

 _Okay, real focus._

 _Speed. I am Speed._

 _One winner, nine losers. I eat losers for breakfast._

 _… Wait, is that not kinslaying? Isn't eating your enemies something only orcs would do? I'm not an orc; I would never commit such horrible actions!_

 _But oh, I have to focus! Speed. Faster than f…_

"For the love of Eru, what are you standing there muttering about, Lord Galdor? The race has already begun!"

 **"Shit!"**


	3. Incorrect Corrections

_**An AU in which Gondolin didn't fall and everybody has text messaging**._

 _AN: Some of these cases are real, some invented._

* * *

 **... Oh Valar, you need to see Maeglin's face when Galdor eat him out at the king's court!**

 _Really, Tuor? So I guess the king punished them both then?_

 **RAT him out! Galdor RAT him out! Stupid phone, rat is a word. Sorry bout that, Eg.**

 _No worries._

* * *

 **Heyy Pen**

 _Hi_

 **Guess what? It's the princess's begetting day next week and His Majesty is holding a fuckfest. What gift are you bringing?**

 **A FEAST**

 _Haha. Autocorrect isn't it?_

 **One more time and I'll slay this phone**

 _Jeez, calm down Gal. I'll give Princess Idril the best lace scarf I've made. Does that sound alright?_

* * *

 **Rog, the king asked you to prepare desserts for Princess Idril's begetting day feast. What are you making?**

 _I guess I'll just bring some cockcakes._

 **Be careful meldonya, the king may throw you in jail if you bring that XD**

 _I said cupcakes. Now don't get any ideas Maeglin._

 **HAHAHA I'm posting this on the internet.**

 _DON'T_

 _Alright. Do whatever you want._

* * *

 **Oh Thel, I'm sorry I didn't make it to the feast. Was it great?**

 _If by "great", you mean Tuor having too many dicks and I ending up having to pull him out of the fountain, then yes Fin, it was absolutely great._

 **What? Wasn't Idril mad?**

 _I'm sorry? I believe I said Tuor had too many drinks. I suppose you don't think him that bad of a person._

 **This is going on toangbandwithautocorrect dot com. Thanks for making my day Ecthelion**

* * *

 **Salgant, regarding your pervert,**

 _Your Majesty? I humbly suggest that you re-read your message_

 ** _Your request_**

 _ROFLMAO gotta show Lin_

 _Wait, what about my request, Your Majesty?_

 _... I'm sorry I put the F in there_

 _Are you not mad?_

 _Sire?_

* * *

 **Valar all damn. Sal, can you go to the King's Square and find my pussy feather hat for me? I think I left it there after the party.**

 _Sure, Lin. What does a pussy feather hat look like?_

 ***Pussy**

 **No not pussy**

 **Purged**

 **Pissed**

 **Penis**

 **FUCK**

 **That's it. Meet me at the Great Market and I'll tell you the details**

* * *

 _Credits for the real cases go to DamnYouAutoCorrect._


	4. Hammer Time (M)

**_It really is no wonder that Rog is the Lord of the Hammer of Wrath._**

* * *

"Oh, that was amazing." Egalmoth says between huffs as he throw an arm around his fellow lord's waist. He is sweaty and flushed, his raven hair a mess sprawled all over the pillow, next to the silver satin ribbon once woven nicely in his braid before being brutally snapped into two.

"I'm glad you appreciate it" Rog replies. His breathing is even heavier. For a few moments, neither of them says anyithing more, just lying close to each other, catching their breaths.

"You know" the lighter-skinned Elf starts after a while, "It really is no wonder that you are the Lord of the Hammer of Wrath."

"What do you mean?" Rog asks, running his rough hand along his friend's smooth arm.

"I mean, your "hammer" is so impressive and you pounded me so hard I suppose I won't be able to sit down for a whole week!" he smiles, running his fingertips in lazy wavy patterns on Rog's toned chest.

"You reckon that funny, don't you?" Rog fakes a grimace, his lips frown in an almost comical manner, the same mouth that sucked Egalmoth off so vigorously moments ago. Egalmoth laughs delightedly as he untangles from Rog to turn and lie on his back.


	5. Mountains and Molehills

_**Why, Maeglin, why?**_

* * *

"Can I ask you something?" the blond Man has to shout to keep his voice from drowning in loud, sharp, headache-inducing clangs of hammer on anvil.

"Go ahead, Tuor." Maeglin shouts back, not bothering to give the other lord the briefest of glances, still pounding whatever metal object he is working on with all his smith's might. There is an imperfection no amount of fixing is able to put right, and for that Maeglin is growing more and more irritated.

"Why is your house called House of Mole?" the "Mole" is half the volume of the rest of the question, as Tuor soon realizes he doesn't have to shout any more because Maeglin has finished his work. Puffs of smoke rise from the water filling the nearby basin as he dips his newly, imperfectly, crafted poduct - a pair of steel scissors - into it to cool, still not giving Tuor anything close to a response.

"I'm serious, Maeglin, answer me!"

"Care to shut up?" he spits, "or do I have to slice your tongue off, or report you to the king for committing the criminal offence of harassing a member of the royal family? Know your place Tuor, before I put you back in it."

He is taken aback, and for a second neither of them voices a single word. Then Tuor notices the flaw on Maeglin's craft that seems minor to the glance - one blade is slightly larger than the other - but throws the symmetry off, and remembering how Maeglin once said, "asymmetry is a crime", Tuor's expression quickly turns amused. He says, "Oh I get it. You do love to make mountains out of molehills, don't you?"

"Get out!"


	6. Bad Hair Day

**_Because beauty is subjective._**

* * *

"Bad Hair Day" has never been on Glorfindel's dictionary. Not even today, when his usually silky flowing radiant locks have somehow puffed up into a majestic mass of golden curls that is an "absolute disaster" to Penlod, looks like "a huge yellow sheep" to Maeglin and "a giant walking Golden Flower" to Galdor (to whom he gives thanks for it is "apparently better than a giant walking Tree") ("But you know that giant walking trees exist" "Oh shut up"). If anything, this style makes him look mightier than ever, so much so that little elflings in the streets flee every time he approaches. The most outrageous reaction must have come from Ecthelion no less, taking every measure to prevent Glorfindel from seeing King Turgon, insisting that his hair makes him taller than the king and that it is a criminal offence to stand higher than him. He has even made a hat - if one would call that stupid _thing_ a hat - with a piece of Penlod's finest lace and decorated with some of Duilin's most colorful feathers. If anything, it looks even worse than Glorfindel's hair, besides, he sees no need to fix anything that isn't _wrong_ to fix.


	7. Music to His Ears (M)

_**No music in the world comes close to what he hears tonight.**_

* * *

Salgant has always had an ear for music. He enjoys finding music in every sound he hears, the happy chirping of birds on a pleasant spring morning, the rustling of a summer breeze through lush green leaves, the steady, luscious flow of warm milk into a porcelain cup, the clank of swords on the training ground, the soft lull of Ecthelion's flute and Penlod's reciting poetry. Many of those sounds have found themselves a place on Salgant's harp strings, and even become masterpieces well-known throughout Gondolin.

Though, he has yet to transpose the _very finest_ sound to his ears, the beautiful tune to which Ecthelion's flute and his own harp dull in comparison, the perfect melody that is none other than the noises his friend is making in his bed.

He bites back a groan as both his and Duilin's cocks are thrust into his podgy hand. "Oh yes, keep going, keep singing, my lovely swallow", he whispers instead. He doesn't dare make his own noises too loud; he must hear, must remember each and every pleasured sighs, every filthy moan, every gasp, every keen, all of which in perfect rhythm with Duilin's enthusiastic movements of his hips. He reaches up and pulls the plump Elf down for a rough kiss, but Salgant abruptly pulls away. He can't bear muffling his friend's voice, he wants to hear _more._

The motion of Salgant's hand grows frenzied, and Duilin's hips buck harder, faster until at last his back arches into as graceful a curve as his bow and his entire body shudders. He explodes between their stomachs in a violent orgasm, letting loose a long, throaty shout, the grand finale of his song. It tips Salgant over the edge and he too plummeted into climax, stifling his groan as his release rushes out to blend with Duilin's.

At the diminishing of excitement comes swelling disappointment and regret, as Salgant has still not discovered how to recreate his friend's cries of pleasure on his harp, but still he gives him a kiss on his forehead before settling beside him.

* * *

 _Dedicated to the Fat Acceptance movement._


	8. Dazzle Me This

**Look who's looking dashing today _, Galdor thinks._**

* * *

Of many things King Turgon of Gondolin does not, or refuses to, understand. One of them is that why when he summoned two of his lords to the court, Galdor dropped his jaw and still has not picked it up even when he orders him to. "For the last time Lord Galdor, close your mouth or I will have to resort to subjecting you to punishment" Turgon declares. The Lord of the Tree only does that when he is _extremely_ surprised. There shouldn't be anything in the palace so unusual at the moment as to shock Galdor so greatly. Not one single painting, not one single chair is out of place. Turgon doesn't look different either, except he is now donning a magnificent red robe that seems to make every surrounding object have a red shine to them, that is so light it flies around him every step he walks as though he is wading through crimson water, whose golden embroidery at the hem shines like the light of Laurelin. The robe that Penlod, who is now smiling proudly at the other lord, collaborated with Idril to craft as a special begetting day's gift for the king.


	9. A Bad Rap

_**There is more than one way to enjoy poetry.**_

* * *

Ecthelion produces one last high and sweet note with a touch of vibrato before placing his flute down onto his lap. He takes a deep, contented breath, his mind as clear as the morning sky, his mood as pleasant as the lingering scent of spring flowers. Elegant plucking of harp strings soon disturbed the silence, and Ecthelion sees that Salgant too is in the garden, making his own music.

Salgant doesn't notice Ecthelion; he instead pays attention to Penlod nearby, singing along with his tune. Only… he isn't actually singing, as the words are recited in raw speech rather than rising and falling in a truly musical manner. Poetry then. It is not uncommon for them to accidentally play the harp and read poems within each other's earshot, yet neither Salgant has ever missed a note nor Penlod has ever stuttered as a result. But now, Ecthelion notices, they are clearly _working with_ each other, Penlod reciting words in rhythm with Salgant's harp. The flautist's previous peace of mind vanished, he interrupts the duo, "My Lords, may I ask what is that… strange melody you are composing?"

"We had an idea of finding a better way to enjoy poetry" replies Penlod, "what better ways to do so than to have background music to match?"

"We performed this to members of our three Houses, but it seems our new composition is getting a bad rap" Salgant continues, "and for that, we have decided to name our invented style of music…"

He made a signal, and so he and Penlod round up their speech in perfect unison, " _Rap_ "


	10. Ensnared

_**His haircut is so sharp she is afraid he might puncture the heart of an oliphaunt.**_

* * *

Idril does not love her cousin in the way he thinks she does. Yet, she can't help but be attracted to Maeglin in a way she never saw coming. Because of that, she finds herself hiding in the bathroom with scissors in hand on several occasions, every single one of which getting caught by her father berating her for "attempting to make a clown of herself". It's something Idril doesn't understand; Maeglin's hair isn't longer than Ecthelion's or softer than Duilin's, neither does it smell sweeter than Salgant's. She doesn't want to run her fingers through it, feel it all over her face or revel in its scent. Yet, she despaired upon learning that the royal friseurs can't replicate his style and nearly wept when Galdor told her her hair would never be as "sharp" as Maeglin's.

"Sharp" doesn't even begin to describe the _hathol_ cut - Sindarin for "blade" - that Maeglin, as well as all members of the House of Mole, sports; _lethal_ would be the perfect word. Each of the straight dark locks that run along either side of his face stops abrubtly a little above his jaw with a single clean cut, creating the impression of a pair of sword blades next to his face. Egalmoth is even imitating this style, but it only makes him look too _elegant_ , too _graceful_ , too _princely_. Never will he achieve the dangerous feel that the part-Dark Elf gives off, those piercing obsidian eyes, that murderous smirk that can't help but suit that pair of black blades at his angular cheeks so perfectly.

Idril, still, doesn't harbor any feelings for Maeglin other than those one feels towards their cousins - and the desire that stirs every time he flicks his dark locks.

* * *

 _AN: Maeglin's hairstyle here is what we would call the hime haircut._


	11. It Takes Two (M)

_**Glorfindel should be embarrassed.**_

* * *

Glorfindel should be embarrassed.

Instead, he savours every millisecond of the fleeting moment and wishes it to last for eternity.

It happens at the ball, when he and Ecthelion decides to shock everyone present further - not that they see two males dancing together every day - and so Glorfindel reaches across Ecthelion's back and, in one breath, dips him as low as he dares.

Time freezes.

Even if the Trees were to be created and the Silmarils placed before his very eyes, that would not make a fairer sight than what his lover-friend is displaying: head leaning back, eyes relaxedly shut, mouth open temptingly, unbound cascade of hair nearly touching the floor like a dark waterfall. Though he has taken caution to wear a mandarin collar today, this position does not allow it to fully cover the purple mark marring the milky expanse of his neck. Glorfindel's mind instantly flashed back to that night. Oh, how he wishes to stop their dance right here and now, to pin Ecthelion to the nearest wall and press his body and roll his hips against him, to strip him of his flowing lavender robe that just _has_ to have that stiff and out-of-place collar... But Glorfindel isn't new to the concept of _dignity_ , and so he lifts his friend back to his original standing position.

"It seems you don't have any other plans for tonight..." Ecthelion says in a low, velvety voice, his lips moving in a delicious, sensuous motion that sets Glorfindel's blood on fire.

"Yes, meldonya, _yes_." Glorfindel breathes.


	12. Of Mandarin Collars

_**The heat never bothered him anyway.**_

 _AN: A direct follow-up of the last chapter._

* * *

It is, again, another impossibly hot day, so much so that King Turgon has to announce an early end of the council meeting. There are still important matters not yet discussed or reached a consensus, but the room is growing more stuffy and unbreathable, and it wouldn't hurt to resume the discussion on a more pleasant day. As soon as all eleven lords stand up and file out of the council hall, Duilin produces a feather folding fan which he then flaps in utter abandon, all the while wiping off the sweat collected at his hair line.

"You do amaze me sometimes, Lord Ecthelion" he says between heavy breaths, "as who else would be able to wear a mandarin collar in such weather?"

Ecthelion looks down at the extra high and stiff collar that he desperately wishes not to have around his neck before shooting a grinning Glorfindel a deadly glare. He will have to make the blond pay for this… Ecthelion turns to Duilin with a smirk, "This heat is nothing compared to what he will have to endure later." He flashes Glorfindel one last wicked glare before joining the other lords to leave the palace, leaving behind a puzzled Duilin and an amused Glorfindel.


	13. Restless Night (M)

**_In which Idril is a fangirl._**

 _AN: Idril hasn't yet married Tuor in this chapter._

* * *

The princess of Gondolin has yet to be able to sleep. Though she's dressed in nothing more than a thin night robe, her supple skin is flushed and damp with sweat. She rolls and tosses, golden hair sprawled all over the pillow. Her nether region is so full of fluids it's nearly bursting, her thighs clamping and hands clutching desperately in order not to spill and ruin her clothes as well as the bedsheets.

How does it come down to this? Earlier today, Idril recalls, she arrived at the training ground for her scheduled sword training with her cousin. She did not expect Maeglin to be sparring with Tuor already, and so she waited, watching them fight. Their combat is a spectacle; looking at them, Idril soon became conscious of her novice's abilities, but the embarrassment quickly gave way to admiration and, frankly, arousal. Idril couldn't take her eyes off their majestic builds, their flushed complexions, their heaving chests, their skillful attacks, every thrust, every block, every slash. Finally, Tuor was the first to topple, tripping over a pebble, and he landed on his back before Maeglin knelt down next to him, brought his face dangerously close to his. Idril couldn't catch what her cousin mumbled afterwards, but the sight alone was so amazing, so tantalizing, so _hot…_

As the image replays vividly in her mind, she shivers all the harder, throws her head back and gasps. Her fluids are still persistently pushing her walls.

She surrenders.

 _Ai, for the love of Ilúvatar, I can't hold it anymore. I'm going to come._

This is going to be a long, restless night.


	14. Just a Game

_**He didn't see it coming.**_

* * *

This is not what he expects; neither does he remember how he gets into this in the first place. He is far too busy enjoying it to mind.

Penlod's lips are soft, oh so soft they make Galdor's heart flutter and leave him wonder how the same mouth can be plundering his own so ruthlessly. Penlod's tongue demands and attacks and conquers, his teeth clash with Galdor's, the maddening intensity sending him into a fever, leaving him dazed, oblivious to everything save for the heady, intoxicating scent of strawberry wine engulfing them both... Yes, now Galdor remembers. He underestimated Penlod's ability to hold his liquor, and his subsequent failure in that cursed drinking game is what lands him in this situation, open-mouthedly kissed in front of Ecthelion and Glorfindel across the table as well as everyone else in the tavern. The Lord of two Houses now pulls his lips back, but still lets his skillful tongue work against that of Galdor's. He dares to crack his eyes open and sees that Penlod's face is red as an apple; he soon becomes aware that he too must be flushed, either from the wine or the kiss, and that he must look incredibly ridiculous for someone preferring to hide his emotions behind an indifferent facade. But Penlod reconnects their mouths again, and all his thoughts die. Such vigour... Such passion... Galdor has to restrain himself with all his might not to moan aloud.

The kiss ends, and both elves stare at each other for a while, panting heavily. "You do not seem comfortable with this" Penlod starts, "if that's the case, I shall never challenge you to a drinking..."

"You better brace yourself for when I defeat you" Galdor interrupts.


End file.
